Blessings
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: After an accident upon the road, Lord and Lady Beckett find themselves stranded and are forced to spend Christmas Eve with a local peasant family. oneshot


**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to "Blessings". This fic was first written and posted on LJ around Christmas time, so I am sure you have an idea where the theme came from. This fic takes places about three years before "My Friendliest" and is the last in the one-shot series. However, I do have an idea for another one-shot though I am making no promises. Special thanks to everyone who read and commented on "Frightful News", your kind words mean so much to me! Any and all feedback is highly appreciated. I did not have a beta for this fic and considering its length, I know I didn't catch all my errors. I apologize in advance for any grammatical or spelling mistakes in this fic. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean.

**Blessings**

They were half a day's ride out of Bath when the coach wheel broke. It happened without warning, the whole vehicle jolting forward, tossing Beckett and the then dozing Anne onto the floor.

"Damn it all!" Beckett growled and forced himself upright. Anne uttered a small cry and tried to extract herself from her voluminous skirts.

"What…what?" she mumbled sleepily. Beckett reached out his arm and grabbed her wrist. After a moment of struggling, they both climbed back onto the seat.

"We've hit a rut, I'd wager," he said. One hand parted the window curtain and he gazed out at the gray fields and frosted stone walls. A brisk wind whipped bits of ice across the roadway.

"I hope." Anne smoothed her gown and fiddled with the lace on her gloves. "Do you think we will be delayed very long? I should have hoped to reach town by tonight. Harriet is expecting us, after all."

Beckett squinted. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, snow clouds. He pulled his cloak closer.

"We cannot be late." Now Anne was leaning forward. Beckett could smell her perfume, roses in winter. His nostrils burned. "It is Christmas Eve, Cutler. We cannot be late." She sounded insistent now, willing the coach to lurch once more and whisk them onward without delay.

"There is little to be done." He sat back and folded his arms over his middle, watching her face harden. After all, it had been his wife's idea to travel so far so needlessly. Balls and parties were pleasant, especially at Christmastide but Beckett was quite content to stay at home. Last year's near tragedy made more him more than a little cautious. At least Anne's uncle would not present at this gathering.

"But…" Anne began to protest, her voice cut off by a sharp rap on the coach door.

"My lord!" The coachmen called. Beckett could not even remember his name. "My Lord Beckett, I am sorry but I must…"

Beckett groaned and threw the door open. Cold air leaked into the interior of the coach. Anne sat shivering in the corner.

"What is it?" Beckett poked his head out the door, looked up and down the road. Wet skies churned above and the sharpness of the wind worried him. A storm approached.

"It's the wheel, my lord." The coachman had his thick hand pressed to the brim of his hat. The sleeves of his greatcoat billowed like black sails. "Broken. I cannot repair it."

Anne mumbled something indistinct. Beckett chewed his bottom lip. Once more, he glanced up and down the roadway, the emptiness boring into him. The long road curled about a field and disappeared below a small rise of dead grass. Mud thickened the ice and made giant puddles.

"Let us see what is to be done then." Beckett hopped down from the coach. The driver looked relieved and took a small step back. His thin face relaxed when the expected anger never came.

"It's up front," he said and walked about to the horses. A footman stood holding their bridles. "See there, my lord, broken."

The coachman pointed to the offending wheel, the rim snapped awkwardly, the spokes crooked. Beckett bent down for a closer look.

"Dear God!" Anne was at the coach door now, stepping down onto the road. Her scarlet gown rippled about her.

"Best stay inside, my lady," the coachman said and tipped his hat a bit. "The weather is harsh."

"I should like to see," Anne replied. She gave the man a ruffled, haughty look and stepped closer. "Hmm," she frowned gazing at the wheel with youthful curiosity.

"It is little use." Beckett straightened and rubbed his hands together. Already, the wind gnawed at his flesh. "We shan't travel any farther this day."

"Oh." He noticed the worry that suddenly infused Anne's features. Her eyes raced up towards the sky. "Oh, but we must find shelter."

"How far back was the last home?" Beckett asked. The coachman shrugged and the footman looked at him with blank eyes.

"I don't recall your lordship, several miles at least. Could be ten, could be two. I cannot tell."

Beckett bit back a curse and tried to ignore the impatience that stirred within him. Anne kept staring up at the sky.

"We must find shelter." Her breath uncoiled in the air as she spoke.

"Not to worry, ladyship." The coachman tried to smile but the gaps in his teeth only made him look ghastly. "We can go along and-

"Listen!" The footman spoke at last. "Listen," he hushed them once more.

They fell silent and the wind moaned about them. Anne sidled closer to Beckett and pressed her shoulders against his. Beckett felt her trembling through layers of wool and silk.

"I don't hear a thing," he muttered. The footman turned bright red.

"No, wait." Now the coachman raised his hand for silence. "I hear it too, there."

Tot-tot. Tot-tot. The light rhythm of hooves beat upon the road. Beckett's hand instinctively flew to his side and his fingers lit upon the hilt of his sword. Highwaymen preyed upon travelers often. He glanced at the pearl necklace ringing Anne's throat and his stomach rolled over.

"It's a horseman alright," the coachman said with a confirming nod of his head. The footman smiled, proud almost.

"Thank God," Anne breathed. Beckett felt her press closer. Her hand snaked around his forearm. He, however, only shifted his jaw and listened.

The steady cadence of hoof upon earth grew louder. Beckett fixed his eyes where the road seemed to meet the gray skies. The first few flakes of snow had begun to fall and the wind blew them sideways, against his cheeks.

The coachman stepped in front of the carriage and raised his long arms.

"Hullo!" he called. "Hullo!"

"Quiet, man!" Beckett snapped. He stepped forward and temporarily dislodged Anne from his arm.

"But my lord-

"Could be a robber," Beckett said in what he hoped was a quiet voice.

"What?" Anne's voice sounded higher than usual. "Robbers? No, not here…no."

"Hush now," Beckett said over his shoulder, hoping his voice sounded soothing. Anne wrapped her cloak about her and fingered her necklace.

Tot-tot. Tot-tot. The rider appeared then, a small fellow on a fat grey pony. Beckett sighed. He certainly did not look like a highwayman.

"Oi!" The man banged his legs against the pony's sides and trotted closer. "What's all this then? Coach run off the road?"

He was poorly dressed, Beckett noticed, his coat brown and thin-looking. A pair of breeches soiled with dirt and Lord knew what else adorned his narrow legs and atop his head he wore a wide-brimmed hat.

"Is anyone hurt?" The man reined in his pony and stared at them with ill concealed curiosity. He had a sunken and sallow face.

"No, sir," the coachman replied. "We've lost our wheel though. I don't suppose you could lend us some help? We're quite stranded."

"Aye, I wouldn't be much of a Christian if I didn't," he said. With a jerky movement he dismounted and let his pony wander to the wayside, where it grazed on short brown grass.

"Whew!" The man whistled upon seeing the wheel. "That'll need to be repaired, yes sir, yes it will." He gazed up at Beckett and Anne and suddenly smiled.

Beckett took a step back and tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

" 'Scuse me manners," the man said and stuck out one weather-beaten hand. "My name's Sam."

To Beckett's surprise his wife stepped forward with a smile of her own. "Thank you kindly for stopping, sir. I am Lady Anne Beckett."

"Whew!" Sam whistled again. "A lady! Well pardon me." And he bowed lowly. Anne laughed.

Beckett cleared his throat and the man straightened.

" I am Lord Beckett," he said. "Any assistance you might offer us will be repaid. My wife and I are in need of shelter until the wheel is repaired. How far is it to the nearest inn?"

"Inn?" The man raised his eyebrows. "No inns about here, lordship, I'm sorry."

Beckett sighed and his shoulders sagged. Anne shuffled her feet.

"But there is old Emma. Her little cottage ain't too far. About a mile down the road and it's pretty flat all the way, except for a little rise. Shouldn't be much of a walk."

"Ah, wonderful!" Anne clapped her hands once.

"I can ride ahead if you like and let her know your coming. I'm sure she'd be happy to have you, a regular good Samaritan that woman is."

"Yes, that would be lovely, Sam," Anne said. She was beaming.

"Straight away, my lady." Sam scrambled over to his pony and pulled himself back into the saddle. "I'll be back shortly and bring help along with me to fetch the coach. You might as well start on your way, though." He paused and held at his hand. "It's snowing already."

And with a little nod of his head, Sam wheeled his pony about and cantered off down the road.

"Isn't it fortunate, darling?" Anne cooed. "Who knew someone should come along so quickly."

For the second time that day, Beckett struggled to swallow his anger. "The man is probably off to fetch a band of thieves, Anne. We'll be robbed and stripped of everything!"

"Oh nonsense." She pouted. "Come along now, we best be on our way." She looked up at the sky and a childish smile shaped her lips. "After all, it is snowing."

* * *

Beckett soon ignored the cold and cutting wind as they walked along. His body heated and sticky sweat stuck to his flesh. It was hard work trudging through the mud and muck and small pits choked with ice. He noticed the hem of Anne's skirts shift to a darker shade of crimson.

The color of blood, he thought grimly and tried to help her across the puddle. Her tiny shoes sank in the mud. Ice jabbed at her ankles. Beckett began to appreciate his tall boots.

"This is miserable," he grunted and looked ahead for any sign of the cottage. Anne matched strides with him and tugged at his arm.

"Look over there, just in that little meadow!" To his surprise, she smiled. "There, see how the snow coats the dying grass. Its looks like lace almost! Or the sugar mother used to sprinkle over sweet buns…" her voice faltered and died. Beckett cleared his throat, uncomfortable with her sudden silence.

Had it been his fault? The thought attacked him with sudden volley of guilt. Had he caused Anne to break with her mother and uncle?

No. Beckett slammed his heel into a patch of ice and felt some satisfaction when it cracked beneath his weight. Water pooled about his foot. No. Anne had wanted to leave, she had wanted to marry him. The fault was not his.

Or was it?

Anne tugged fiercely on his arm once more, dispelling his thoughts like dried leaves in a tempest.

"Oh, it's Sam!" And she pointed down the road to a fat pony trotting along. Sam bounced back and forth in his small saddle, his legs swinging in a quick rhythm.

"Hullo!" he called and waved with one hand. Anne waved back.

"Is there anyone with him?" Beckett's hand glided over his sword once more.

"Of course not." Anne continued to wave. Sam stopped his pony a yard or two away and smiled at the Becketts.

"Old Emma says your welcome," he said, his chest puffing out as he panted. "She's just down the road, you should see her cottage around the bend."

"Wonderful!" Anne cried.

"Have you brought any help with you?" Beckett asked. "My coachman and footman will need…more assistance." He looked doubtfully at Sam's scrawny body.

"Aye, the lad's just coming along now. We'll bring your coach and horses along right away. Shouldn't take more than us five."

Beckett nodded despite his misgivings. Anne's eyes twinkled.

"You'd best get along, lord and lady," Sam said. He thumped his legs against his pony's sides. "Emma has a fire going and some bread on the hearth. It ain't much now, but better than being cold and hungry."

"Oh thank you, Sam."

Beckett said nothing. He was surprised by Anne's overwhelming gratitude. Not that she was unkind to peasants, but he knew she remembered her station always and never consorted with common people.

Perhaps she is just happy not to be stranded, Beckett thought and they walked on, the pony's hooves signaling Sam's retreat.

* * *

True to Sam's word, the Becketts came upon a stone cottage around the turn.

"Rustic," Beckett grumbled and helped Anne through the gate. Dead ivy scrolled about the fence and trailed up the cottage walls. The roof was thatched. Above the door a charred wooden plank stood out, black against the stone. Frozen flowerbeds and a vegetable patch bordered the large yard.

"It is quaint." Anne tucked her hands beneath her cloak. "But lovely, still. Don't you think so, darling?"

"Rustic," Beckett repeated.

The door opened and a young boy trotted out, his hair a crown of gold, his face pock-marked. Stretching up on his toes, he touched the charred wood atop the door and smiled.

"Aunt Emma, they're here!" he cried and dashed past Beckett and Anne with a nod.

He disappeared beyond the gate and down the road.

"Oh, bless me!" A woman now stood in the door. She had a round face and a round body and round eyes. Lifting her hand, she patted the mobcap covering her graying hair. "Oh bless me, Sam said you'd be about." And she curtsied, poorly. "My lord and lady, come in, please come in."

Beckett held back for a moment, but Anne strode forward.

"You must be Emma," she said. "I am Lady Anne. My husband and I are most grateful for your hospitality."

"Lady Anne, what a kindly name." Emma curtsied once more and Beckett took a reluctant step towards them. Anne was already grasping Emma's hand, shaking it with her frozen one.

"My you're chilled," Emma said. "Come in, we have a nice fire, if not much else."

"What is that?" Beckett glanced up at the burnt wood, worn smooth from wind and rain.

"My husband," Anne said, reaching out to touch Beckett's arm. "Lord Cutler Beckett."

"Your lordship." Emma followed his gaze up to the door. "That's a piece of wood from the old cottage that once stood here. It burnt to the ground ten years ago and we built a new one, made of stone this time. It's hard to burn stone, aye? But we kept that one piece, as good luck and to remind us of our blessings. Now come in, come in. The wind is awfully strong, isn't it?"

Anne followed Emma inside and the two were soon chatting like birds in spring. Beckett stared at the plank a moment longer.

"Blessings, humph!" he mumbled and then stepped inside. The warmth of the room embraced him, though he felt cramped in the tiny space.

A wooden table scratched and marred with heavy use sat in the center of the room. Four rickety chairs were pushed up against the wall, one next to an old hutch that boasted earthenware mugs and plates. A single pewter goblet sat the center. Beckett detected a bit of etching upon it, but could not make out the words. A date of marriage perhaps, he thought.

The fireplace took up the entire left side of the wall and pots hung along the mantle. Several trinkets adorned the mantle, a figurine of a shepherd boy, a dusty clock and some wood carving.

Emma was bustling about. She lifted a rough cloth that covered a lump of dough on the table.

"Still needs to rise," she said and gestured for Anne to follow her. "In here." She pointed to a small doorway that led to a darkened room. "We have a small bed. The linens are clean and all. Your lordship and you might like to stay in there, it's closer to the fire. I can sleep with Joseph in the attic."

"Joseph. The boy, your nephew?" Anne asked.

"Why, yes." Emma beamed. "He isn't my own blood, no. I knew his mother and father, they lived farther down the road. Poor things, the pox took them. Almost took Joseph too. But I brought him here and raised him. A good boy he is, such a good boy. I have no children of my own. Do you have children, ladyship?"

Beckett's ears began to ache. Would the woman ever stop talking?

"No, not yet. We are just married, very happily married."

Beckett shrugged out of his cloak and threw it over an empty chair. Then, with another quick glance at Emma, he slipped his sword from his belt and rested it against the chair.

"Oh here, lordship, I'll hang to over the fire for you to dry." Emma reached for the cloak and held it up. "My, its fine, isn't it?"

Anne likewise removed her cloak and Emma strung them both over the hearth. She and Anne continued to talk.

"I was never married myself, no I'm but a poor old spinster." She showed Anne to a chair and Beckett seated himself beside her.

"Sam said you were a wonderful woman," Anne quipped.

"Oh Sam." Emma blushed. "He's a good man himself. Lives about three miles from here on a farm. He comes by often and helps Joseph in mending the fences. We don't have much of a farm here. Only a few chickens in a shed out back and we keep a donkey and cow in the field. I hope you don't mind, your horses will have to stay outside tonight. We have a little shed to shield them from the wind."

Beckett was about to object when Anne jabbed him with the toe of her shoe.

"That's fine, just fine. We are so happy Sam found as, Lord knows what might have happened."

"Oh yes, a frightful thing it is indeed to be stranded." Emma frowned and smoothed the front of her gray gown. She had light eyes, Beckett noticed. Not unlike the color of grass on the moors.

"I suppose you were on your way to a fancy party. To meet with your family? Your mother and father?"

Anne's face suddenly twisted and Beckett saw her grip the arm of the chair. "My father is dead," she said and no more. She did not mention her mother.

Emma's brows knitted together. "Forgive me." And she bustled back over to the table, scooping up the bread and placing it in a pan. With a groan, she shoved it over to the hearth and shoveled coals on top.

Beckett found the sudden silence uncomfortable. Though he was glad that Emma had finally closed her mouth, Anne's strained expression worried him. The thought of spending Christmas in such a common place annoyed him. Still, he would rather his host be friendly.

"Might I inquire as to the pewter goblet?" he asked in what he hoped was a polite voice.

"Ah, that." Emma whipped about with a smile. "It was my sister's, a wedding gift of hers. She died some years back and left it to me." Emma hurried over to the hutch and fetched the goblet, twisting her apron about it. "I never use it, you see. But if your lordship would like a spot of ale, I could give you some."

Beckett smiled. Finally, some finery. "Yes, that would be-

"Thank you, but no." Anne squeezed his arm but continued to smile at Emma. "My husband doesn't mind drinking from earthenware."

"Of course." Emma replaced the goblet and reached for a mug. "I'll fetch you some ale."

"What was that for?" Beckett said under his breath after Emma had disappeared into the other room.

"You cannot drink from that!"

"Why?" Beckett raised a brow and frowned at his wife.

"You can't!" She pinched his arm and he winced. "Be grateful for the ale."

"I'd rather Madeira."

Anne bristled and fell silent. Emma returned and handed him a mug of ale. Beckett sipped it reluctantly and Anne accepted a mug of her own with heartfelt thanks.

Soon, Beckett's mind began to mellow with the stout drink and he half-listened to Anne and Emma's chatter. Images of grand ballrooms filled with candles and platters of sweet meats filled his thoughts. It simply wasn't fair. Why should he be condemned to such a poor Christmas, stuck in a musty cottage with peasants.

He shifted in his chair and stretched out his legs. His stomach grumbled and he knew not expect exotic fruits and rich pastries. The baking bread did smell good though. And Anne seemed cheerful, more so than she had in a long time.

A while later, the sound of heavy hooves sounded in the yard. Emma peeked her head out the door and Beckett sat up.

"They've come back," she said and held the door wide open. Cold air rushed into the room and a few flakes of snow painted the floor.

Sam was the first one in, stomping his feet and beating his arms.

"Sweet Jesus!" he cried.

"Mind your tongue," Emma snapped.

The coachman and footman followed, both red from the cold.

"We put the horses in the field, Lord Beckett," the coachman said. "They should be fine for the night."

"The coach is in the yard," Sam said. Emma handed him a mug of ale. "After the snow quiets down I can ride back to my farm and fetch some wood and nails. Should be able to fix the wheel in the morning."

After a minute, the boy Joseph scooted in through the door and shut it.

"Cow and donkey fed?" Emma asked.

"Yes, Aunt."

"Chickens?"

"Yes, Aunt."

"Good boy, Joseph." And she enveloped him in a hug. Anne looked away and Beckett thought her eyes looked moist. He knew she thought of her mother.

Again, his gut clenched. Was it his fault?

But he had little time to think. Another mug of ale was pressed into his hands and Emma raced to the fireplace. Moving the coals aside, she lifted the blackened lid on the pan and scrutinized the bread.

"Oh how lovely." With the hem of her apron, she grasped the pan away from the warm hearth. "We shall have a bit of the beef stew from last night's supper. Will that please your ladyship?" Emma turned to Anne, her eyes begging for approval.

Anne muttered something assuring and Emma lifted another pot from the hearth with a grunt.

For a moment, Anne sat quite still. Beckett recognized the look in her eyes, determined. Determined as when she had stared down her uncle last Christmas. Suddenly, she stood.

"Let me help you," she said.

"My lady, you shall soil your fine gown!" Emma protested. But Anne gently reached for a set of dishes and began to place them on the table. Soon, the women were chatting like old friends.

In the far corner, the coachman, footman and Sam laughed aloud at some joke. Beckett stiffened and tried not to listen to them, but somehow his ears seemed to pick up bits and pieces.

"And so the lassie, she was bonnie lassie aye, she's gone down to see the ploughboy. And he's taken her by the hand and sleeve, and he's lain her down upon the soft green grass to…"

Joseph reentered the room, scrubbing his scarred face with a piece of flannel. Droplets of water stuck to his long nose.

Beckett looked away when he saw the boy's eyes on him. But to his indignation, Joseph settled by his feet.

At first, the lad simply stared at boots, crusted with mud but still fine. And then at last he raised his wide eyes, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip.

"My lord?" he asked.

Beckett spared him a glance.

"My lord, your coachman says you work for a trading company?"

"Yes." Beckett shifted. The chair creaked. "The East India Trading Company."

Joseph nodded, his mouth opened slightly. "You've been along the waves then, right? Sailed about?"

A nod. "Yes."

"Have you…have you ever seen any pirates?"

Beckett's eyebrows shot up and the boy flinched, backing away. "Pirates?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Humph, a few."

"Oh." He sat back on his heels and a smile folded his lips. "I should like to go to sea one day and join the navy. Fight off pirates, you know. But," Joseph paused and looked at Emma. "I can't leave her, not yet." He returned his gaze to the lord's face and Beckett thought he saw a deep hunger in his eyes. The lad wanted advice, advice from an elder, a father.

Nervous tension seeped into Beckett's limbs. He tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair and clenched the mug in his hand.

"You are a good boy," he said at length. "A good boy to care so. And you will see it yourself one day."

Joseph did not seem satisfied, but he did not seem disappointed either.

Anne and Emma had finished setting the table.

"Come, come." The portly hostess gestured at him. Beckett stood and Joseph carried his chair to the head of table. Brown stew, with small bits of meat and vegetables soon filled seven bowls. A bench was brought from the other room to seat the coachman and footman.

When all were seated, Emma looked up at him expectantly.

"Lord Beckett, would you like to say grace?"

"Oh, well." Beckett stared at the bowl before him, a hunk of warm bread nestled close by. He was not a religious man and attended church only to fulfill a social duty. And only once in his life had he truly prayed, but did not receive an answer, or at least not the one he wanted.

"I really don't-

Anne jabbed at him again with her toe and Beckett's leg jolted. With a muted sigh, he rose to his feet. The gathered company bowed their heads and folded their hands. Beckett moistened his lips. What to say?

Surprisingly, the words came to him. With little effort he recited a respectable prayer. Where did he remember it from?

All muttered "amen", all except Anne. She kept her head bowed over her food. Beckett sat back down and watched her. A single tear fell into her stew, rippling the thin liquid.

And then he remembered. Her uncle had said the same prayer during last year's Christmas dinner.

Beckett tried to swallow his guilt along with the food.

Dinner progressed with a cheery mixture of laughter and chatter. Joseph, the coachman and Sam discussed horses and argued good naturedly. Anne and Emma spoke in soft tones and more than once, Anne turned to talk with him.

"Enjoying yourself?" she asked quietly. Beckett managed a smile.

"What do you think?"

"Be grateful," she said as he spooned the last mouthful of vegetables into his mouth. "Be grateful for this."

Joseph put down his spoon and swiveled in his seat. "Aunt?" he turned to Emma. "Do you think Mam and Dad are having a good Christmas?"

Emma's face tightened, but her lips curved into a smile. "The very best, lad."

"I have no family either," Anne said suddenly. "My mother and uncle aren't dead, they only hate me."

Beckett curled his fingers. His breathing quickened.

"They…they," Anne glanced at Emma. "They hate me for marrying my husband. I have been disowned by them."

Oh dear God, Beckett thought. It was my fault after all.

"Now, now, you mustn't think such harsh thoughts," Emma said. "Look at me, my lady, an old lonely spinster. I think it good of you to marry, especially when your husband is such a fine man."

Anne smiled through her tears. "I disagree with you, Emma. I do not think you are lonely woman at all. Not when you have such company." She gestured at Joseph and Sam.

"Aye." Emma stood. "Let us have some cheer now. Joseph, fetch your fiddle. We shall have music!"

Joseph scrambled to his feet and rushed into the other room. Anne dried her tears. But Beckett could not ignore the hollow feeling that gnawed at his gut. Had he done Anne wrong?

"His father left it to him," Emma said once Joseph had returned with his fiddle. "My, that man could play! He taught Joseph a little."

The table was cleared and Emma poured more ale into each mug. Joseph positioned himself by the fire and tucked the fiddle beneath his chin.

The first song was a merry sort of jig. Sam and the footman clapped along. Anne smiled.

"The lad plays well, doesn't he?" she said. Beckett nodded and reached forward to grasp her hand. But she drew away before he could touch her fingers.

The next song was a more familiar tune. Emma, Sam and the coachman began to sing along.

"Ah, I know this one!" Anne cried. She quickly joined in.

_Shepherds shake off your drowsy sleep_

_Rise and leave your silly sheep_

_Angels from Heav'n around are singing_

_Tidings of great joy are bringing_

_Shepherd! The chorus come and swell!_

_Sing Noel! O sing Noel! (1)_

Beckett reclined in his chair and listened to his wife's voice. Not the best, but competent and schooled. He liked the way her lips moved, her eyes catching the light of the fire. The song ended and another started. This time the whole company sang, a jostled mixture of happy voices, deep and high. Only Beckett remained silent.

_Wassail! Wassail! All over the town!_

_Our toast it is white, our ale it is brown_

_Our bowl it is made with of the white maple tree_

_With a wassailing bowl we drink to thee! (2)_

"Let's have another Joseph," Sam demanded and slapped his knee.

"Yes, one more dear," Emma begged.

Joseph lowered his fiddle for a moment, the bow hanging limply from his right hand. His young face twisted in thought and the scars from his childhood seemed to fade. He glanced at Anne and then Beckett.

"I have just the thing," Joseph said. He lifted his fiddle and began to play.

The tune was slow at first and Beckett let it creep over him. He thought of the carols played during the great balls and parties. Stiff and awkward they were. Not jolly, not merry and certainly not so comforting.

Comforting? Beckett leaned forward and watched young Joseph play, saw Emma smile and the coachman clap. Did he really find comfort in this place, so small, so poor, so common?

The answer surprised him. Anne was singing again. She looked so happy, carefree. He took his joy from hers.

_All hail to the days that merit more praise_

_Than all the rest of the year_

_And welcome the nights that double delights_

_As well for the poor as the peer!_

_Good fortune attend each merry man's friend_

_That doth but the best that he may_

_Forgetting all wrongs with carols and songs_

_To drive the cold winter away. (3)_

Sam leapt to his feet and grabbed Emma's forearms.

"Come on, lass!" he cried and pulled her to the side. Emma blushed but obeyed. Together they began to dance, their feet moving to the shrill cry of the fiddle. It appeared to be some sort of jig, Beckett decided and he glanced at Anne. She watched them enviously. The singing continued.

_Tis ill for a mind to anger inclined_

_To think of small injuries now_

_If wrath be to seek, do not lend her your cheek_

_Or let her inhabit thy brow_

_Cross out of thy books malevolent looks_

_Both beauty and youth's decay_

_And wholly consort with mirth and good sport_

_To drive the cold winter away._

Without thinking, Beckett rose and tapped Anne on the shoulder.

"My lady?"

She tore her eyes away from Emma and Sam.

"Cutler, what-

Beckett gently pulled her to her feet and led her off to the side.

"Cutler!" Anne laughed breathlessly and clutched his arms.

He thought it strange to dance the minuet in such a place. Drawing Anne closer, Beckett tried to imitate Sam and Emma's quick steps. The result was a rather sloppy dance, one that had Anne stepping on his toes.

But she never stopped laughing.

After a few minutes, they managed to gather themselves and dance passably. Even Sam and Emma looked over their shoulders at them.

"Enjoying yourself?" Beckett asked his wife. Anne panted and nodded.

"You?"

"Of course." He smiled.

_This time of the year is spent in good cheer_

_And neighbors together do meet_

_To sit by the fire, with friendly desire_

_Each other in love to greet_

_Old grudges forgot are put in the pot_

_All sorrows aside they lay_

_The old and the young doth carol this song_

_To drive the cold winter away._

The coachman and the footman stopped singing. Joseph lowered his fiddle and bowed. The entire company clapped.

* * *

A short while later, Anne slipped out into the yard to breathe the cold air. Beckett followed her. She stood ankle deep in the snow, her head tilted toward the pink sky.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" she asked him.

He stepped closer. The countryside was quiet and he could see the large field stretching behind the cottage. A tiny wooden shed sheltered the horses, donkey and cow. Snow still drifted down and landed on Anne's shoulders, nestling in her hair.

"Yes, it is beautiful," Beckett said.

Anne sighed and rubbed her fingers together.

"Emma is quite a smart woman," she said. "She is right to be grateful and…and so are we."

Beckett glanced at her.

"I know what I am grateful for," Anne continued. "I am grateful that you risked so much for me, that you saved me. And no matter what uncle or mother say, I shouldn't change it for the world. Your affection is worth more than theirs."

The hollow feeling in Beckett's stomach disappeared, only to be replaced by a sudden warmth.

Anne brushed past him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she said and hurried back into the cottage.

Beckett remained outside for a moment longer. Even in the dark, he could see the charred piece of wood fixed above the door. Emma was indeed a smart woman.

Count your blessings, he thought and touched his fingers to it.

**The End

* * *

**

This is a verse from the song "Shepherds Shake Off Your Drowsy Sleep" and is a traditional English carol.

This is a verse from the song "The Gloucestershire Wassail" and is thought to date back to the Middle Ages.

This song is titled "To Drive the Cold Winter Away" and is a traditional 18th century English carol. I would highly recommend listening to Loreena McKennitt's wonderful version of this song.


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